About a month ago I sold a story that I’d had kicking around for elevenish years and that throne has now been USURPED by the sale of “Once Precious” to Cracked Anvil Press. Once Precious is one of the first five stories I ever wrote (all of them spins on fairy tales) with the intent of publication. (For some reason I thought I needed a roster of stories before I could try selling any of them. Fun fact: no one gives a shit.) I don’t remember exactly when it was written, but my records say it was first submitted in November 2010. I have a note that I ‘heavily’ rewrote it after the second rejection (lack of confidence in the story? or did I gain the ability to recognise where areas needed improvement? who can say!), got a couple more rejections, and then it languished in the writing folder for thirteen years. Thirteen!! After only five rejections!! Grow some skin, DeHaan!!

I have made a number of sales this year, when usually I can post an update, like, once a year (generally in November. I don’t know why I get most acceptances in November). Certainly this is largely due to the number of submissions I’ve sent (about a hundred since January. I am putting in the goddamn effort) but it still feels somewhat surreal.

“Like you made a bargain with the fae?” No, actually! But thank you for trying to bring this back around to the heading!

I am going to pare this anecdote down considerably but it started with looking up pastry brushes and evolved into getting mad at AI for ruining whimsy. I’d already been thinking hard about the next steps to take, career-wise. I was in a somewhat foul mood. And there was a handwritten note in a window asking for a shop assistant at a frame maker’s.

I presented myself to the frame maker, who was scrawny, hunched, had one bloodshot eye and an indeterminate accent. I said I was interested and owned that I did not know what ‘shop assistant’ entailed. He said “It’s kind of a weird job.” And then he asked if I was scared of saws. I said I once used a chop saw to slice open a metal urn whose lid had been glued on. By his expression, he either didn’t understand what I said, or he understood perfectly and was worried about my sanity.

At first he said to come back with a resume, and then he said, “Or just come by the shop and try it out. See how it feels.”

o- okay.

And so I’m going back in a couple days to fuck around and find out.

(I texted a friend about this and their immediate response was “YOU DIDN’T GIVE HIM YOUR NAME, DID YOU?” Because working in a weird little shop with power tools and no fucking AI is exactly what I’d been hoping for and obviously this dude was a fae who had set a cunning trap specifically for me.)

Wish me luck? Maybe I’ll put a little salt in my pocket when I go…